There are two ways to wash the dishes. The first is to wash the dishes in order to have clean dishes and the second is to wash the dishes in order to wash the dishes.’
Thich Nhat Hanh
My intention here is to be present at hand to the dish in my hand. Perhaps we’ll strike gold today and I’ll communicate some semblance of that in this fourth installment of the Life of the Day series here on Contemplify.
So there is this contemplative rhythm in some monasteries of the Christian tradition called the Divine Office…or the Liturgy of the Hours. Today’s episode is the third of a series I’ll be doing on the reimagining of the Divine Office into my own personal reflective interpretations as a contemplative in the world. The intention is to mark each of the Hours but in a form very different from their regular practice behind monastery walls. In other words, this is what a contemplative rhythm looks like in my particular life.
My fourth reinterpretation I’ll be exploring the divine hour called ‘Vespers’, so for the sake of us all, here is how it is traditionally defined:
ves·pers
/ˈvespərz/
a service of evening prayer in the Divine Office of the Western Christian Church (sometimes said earlier in the day).
The stone floor is warm in the kitchen and the dishes await their baptism to new life. First I gather them and make new piles. Piles that make no apparent sense to any onlooker, but aligned with the right action about to take place. Firmly stacked and ordered, I turn my attention to cleaning the sink. The filth that collects in the drains and around the edges need addressing. I scrub in circular motions, removing any food build up, rinsing the crumbs into the drain catcher and disposing of the scraps, seen and unseen, into the trash.
Then I turn on the hot water, put the stopper in the sink and watch the water collect and swirl into one amorphous being. At about a half inch, I squirt a dollop of soap into the water. The gel quickly transforms into bubbles that multiply with the onrush of water. The water level grows with a thick layer of bubbles at the top, hiding anything below. When the water reaches the maximum level for its needs, I turn it off.
Spoons are my starting place. Followed by knives and their popular and rambunctious cousins, forks. The cutlery is typically first on the list, always a crowd of them waiting. The spoon that was used just once to stir the honey in my daughter’s tea, the knife that spread butter on crusty toast and the fork that clings to the remnants of the previously mentioned scrambled eggs. As the flatware settles into the abyss of soap-laden water, they appear to relax. No longer taxing to cut, divide, gather or transport, they are at ease in their dormancy. They forget about their lost brothers and sisters who were brought to barbeques and potlucks, never to be seen again. It was just luck (or fate) that it wasn’t them. They have heard the rumors of one wayward spoon still crying for help behind the stove, who is casually remembered and then just as easily forgotten by the hands who so tenderly care for them now.
Wash, scrub, rinse, repeat.
Returning to their original state, they appear eager to regather in their separate dividing lines in the drawer closest to the end of the counter. They have a job to do after all. When seen together, they are just a pile of forks. Each the same, but when chosen for a particular evening supper they have a purpose that goes without question. Those at the top know that they are likely to be chosen more often, and those at the bottom grumble at their lot in life. There is no fairness.
Next come the glasses, cups and mugs. The circle of beer on the bottom of the pint glass will soon be gone, the milk layer nearing a yogurt state clenches to the sides of the cup and the two day coffee ring is cocky about it’s chance of survival. They all enter the water together. Klinking when they connect as if raising a toast to the marriage partners of the kitchen. The light over the sink reflects off the glasses…revealing smudges of fingerprints. The first wash is in the inside of the glass. Wiping away any memory of that second beer which seemed like a good idea at the time. Confident that any stale beer is washed away, my attention turns to the outside of the glass and the rim. The marks from lips pressed on glass, bridging the container to the recipient, are now gone, as are the belly laughs between hoppy sips from the night before. The laughter that was invoked then hardly raises a smile to those same lips. The moments have passed between full glasses and a full sink. The water is starting to become murkier as they work off the mire. There is no rush to washing the glasses, for without presence, the time is wasted. A glass can be left with just enough of it’s previous content that will make it unuseable for the next person seeking to fill it up. Better to be slow, aware of this daily ritual. A quick walk around the house to find any errant glasses. One in the hallway. Two in the bedroom. My wife collects water glasses by her bedside. When I bring them back to the counter, I see the water needs to be refreshed. I drain the water. As the fresh water refills the sink, look out the kitchen window onto my street. Quiet, a lazy breeze drifts through the bushes. Not a car in motion. Just the old jalopy parked across the way. Whenever it’s ignition is turned over, it shouts and pleads to be put out of its misery. No such luck, my neighbor will keep it alive no matter how much it suffers at his hands.
I add soap to the collecting hot water. Bubbles form and grow confidently as if they will always hold their place. I return to washing mugs. The coffee mugs demand the most attention. They hold court in the morning, firmly and reverently held as I would hold my child’s hand when crossing the street. The promise of the day is poured into the mug each morning, and now I only see the forgotten drops that have dried to the bottom, forming an unbroken circle. My duty is attend to this ring, clear it for tomorrow. Extra attention is given to my wife’s mug. It was artfully made by our friend Jen with great care. I’ve never used this mug. Not once. I’m certain my wife would not mind if I did, but the thought hadn’t crossed my mind until this moment. I like that their is a mug in our house that is only for her lips. That the sanctity of that mug is never spoken about, but alone enjoyed by her, washed by me to be returned to the shelf for her use the following morning. Repetition is not redundant as one of my favorite mystics says. My mug preference goes in phases, I’m not even sure which one of these I used this morning. No matter, I give myself to each one as I wash. Confident of the job, but with an inkling of blind faith that it will come out with no traces of the morning coffee.
Wash, scrub, rinse, repeat.
The cups are a mystery. The hodge-podge of liquid and crumbs are the giveaway that my daughter was eating a muffin while drinking milk. But is that a grape peel? Certitude is lost on me now. But I think she was drinking from this cup while I asked about her day. Who did you see at the park? Did you go down the slide? Was it hot at the park? The responses were as decipherable as my understanding of this cup’s contents. The ecstasy of a trip to the park for a two-year old is too much to put into words. The dawning of what comes next surprises me. She growls like a lion and then blinks at me. The filterless engagement of children. I continue washing the cup, thinking of her slowed breathing in darkness of her room. Sleeping at last, making room for this daily worship to occur.
The plates are piled neatly, and the lifting of each layer holds a great unveiling. The first is a sticky trap of syrup and french toast crumbs. Best to just put this in the warm water and let is soak below the bubbles. Next, a plate that appears to have never been touched or eaten off of. How did it come to be in this pile? Was it intended for use, but forgotten? No matter it’s past, it has come for a cleanse.
Wash, scrub, rinse, repeat.
The cheesegrater, my nemesis. Each time we meet in this washing ritual, I recall the damage you can do. The metal configuration like upturned deathly ski moguls. It’s been years since you sliced my hand as I tried to remove some cheese remains from your razor claws. I wince at the memory, yet you must be cleaned. I deal with you with great care and awareness and skepticism, first I shake off any hanging cheese chads into the trash, then use my fingers to pull the strongly tied refuse into the bin. You will not get me again. Dunking my nemesis into the warm, lavender scented water I swish it around in hopes of not having to scrub it with the wash cloth. No such luck. I wipe with the grain and attention in broad strokes before succumbing to the detailed surgery of removing the smudges and hidden cheese crumbles in hard to reach crevices. The work is necessary, irritating and ultimately satisfying. You shall not win, you bastard. Emerging from the water again, I see it sparkle and drip. Upon further examination, I am elated by the end result. Another round with the grater, another fear faced and defused. Thanks to my detailed attention with precise elbow grease, the grater was transformed from a kitchen gadget in a grimy state with all of its violent potential to…dumbly sitting on the counter as bell without its ringer.
Wash, scrub, rinse, repeat.
Oh, a fork has been discovered hiding behind a pan. You poor thing. So alone with your comrades the cutlery. In speedy fashion, caressing the fork with the washcloth to it’s end, I place it in the—crash!
Dropped the fork on the ground. Poor thing has the worst luck.
Like a widow for it’s mite, all my attention goes to this fork’s retrieval. Back in my hand, with old coffee grounds surrounding its face. In no time, the face is cleaned and all sides are scrubbed clean. As if passing a newborn to a mother for the first time, I place this fork in the drying rack. The mindless betrayal of cutlery lurks around every pan.
Wash, scrub, rinse, repeat.
The pans are stoically waiting their turn. Their ceramic and glass heft is felt on the table. They have been through this ritual time and time again and know that they will not come out spotless. They have given up on perfection, settled into the wounds and stains of meals well-served. The corners betray any perception of flawless beauty. This of course bothered them as young pans, eager to be right, clean and presentable. Not like the pans they saw from the previous generations, full of dings, burned edges, missing tops…’golden girls gone wild’ they would snicker behind their back. They would watch as the older pans would only be used for the same old recipe, perhaps they couldn’t contain any others, or had forgotten they had just done that one the week before. The self-satisfaction of the young pan doesn’t last. They see a fellow pan of roughly the same number of years that they’ve shared cupboard space with fall off the counter and smash into a dozens of pieces. Swept up and placed in the trash. Just like that. They had been so pristine, so much possibility for maybe even attending to an anniversary meal, now gone forever. Life is not fair. The tragedy of losing a cupboard mate thanks to a mindless elbow. In the blink of eye the cupboard changes. It is an initiation of sorts for pans to bear witness to this loss. Certain snooty pan say this will never happen to me, and they carry on in their lone exotic corner of novelty kitchen gadgets. Each more ridiculous than the next, they still look down on that old 9 x 11 pan that is freckled with burn scars. Then there are those that are changed forever from the loss. The begin to recognize their inherent value is their shape in the world; to serve and provide within the conditions of the daily bread. They feel tickled at being dropped off at the neighbors who have become new parents, or riding in the car to the church potluck, or housing the familiar roasted vegetables on the family dinner table. The secret life of pans.
I submerge the first pan, pull it out with water still intact, trying not to spill any water onto the floor as I move it to the counter to soak. I save the pans for last. They have seen the worst of it and take the most concentration, I’d be the first to say that our encounters are rough and it’s difficult to tell whether I’ve made any difference on them at all.
Wash, scrub, rinse, repeat.
My last pan. It takes all of my collected energy to be present enough, to be thorough enough with those damn crusty corners. My thumbnail bends into the flesh as I try to scrape the final barnacles from this shipwreck of a pan. Surveying the scene, my hunch is that those remaining spots are just old age and wear. I lift the pan onto the full drying rack, let space, time and cool air finish the work that I started.
Still standing at my altar, my breathing even and thoughts uncluttered, my ritual is complete. The dishes are transformed. Looking out the kitchen window over the sink, I think of old Brother Lawrence and the piles of dishes he undertook in his day. I hear myself say,
Wash, scrub, rinse, repeat.
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